


Paper Saints

by Mhalachai



Category: Gilmore Girls, House M.D., Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Demonic Possession, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-27
Updated: 2007-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-02 12:03:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2811275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mhalachai/pseuds/Mhalachai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts with doubt, and it ends the same way, but Rory doesn't know how to live with that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paper Saints

* * *

It starts with doubt.

It's always doubt. No matter what the priests and rabbis and imans and other holy men (always men, they know women see past the black and white and work their way into holy shades of grey) say, it's never sin that invites the devil in. Never harsh words, never broken vows or fleshy sins.

Only doubt.

The gnawing, eating, clawing self-doubt that eats away at the soul. It opens a person up to so much more.

It strips away their potential, their hopes, their dreams.

It gives control away.

* * *

The doubt was what did it to her. Rory Gilmore, shining star to her family's aspirations. She was going to be a journalist, you see. A teller of stories, a beacon of light in the darkness.

She was going to be important. She was going to be _someone_.

Right?

What did it matter when the doubt started to keep her up at night, clawing at her insides, making her get up to re-read her own writing at three in the morning? She was the best, everyone said so.

But what if she wasn't?

Logan's deal fell apart, Mom's marriage fell apart, everything was falling apart around her and she had to be strong, no one could see that she was falling apart too, questioning everything she did, everything she said, everything she had ever wanted.

At home, there was fight after fight with Logan, which started as her trying to reassure Logan that things would work out in the end and him pointing out that she had no idea what she was talking about. He stopped calling her Ace and just called her Rory, when he'd speak to her at all. She wondered what she was doing wrong, if she'd drive everyone away just like her mother always did. She wondered so hard that when it came time to take the freeway off-ramp to Connecticut, she kept on driving straight.

She wasn't sure anyone would miss her if she was gone, for a little while at least.

The headache started outside Princeton. She thought it might be nice to visit the New Jersey university, see how things were a Yale's rival school, but the closer she got, the worse her head felt. She parked her car in visitor's parking, thinking a walk might clear her head, but then the nausea hit.

The nice campus security man pointed her in the direction of the free clinic at the teaching hospital. Rory vaguely knew of this place; Paris had been making noise about trying to go to Princeton's med school. But Paris had never told her the building was so shiny. The light pulsed against her eyes, making her feel like there was someone behind her, hitting her skull with a hammer.

It took ten minutes for the nurse to direct her to an exam room, and another five for the doctor to show up. As Rory was concentrating on breathing shallowly and not throwing up, she almost missed the way the doctor smiled at her.

If Rory were a more lyrical person, she'd have said the smile was... evil.

"What seems to be the problem, Miss..." The doctor looked at the chart, still smiling. "Gilmore?"

"It's my head," Rory said, wishing her racing heart would stop. Logically, she knew she wasn't in any danger; she was in a crowded hospital with a room full of nurses right outside the door. But her brain, the part that whispered to her at night that there were monsters under the bed and ghosts in the walls and goblins right outside the door, was screaming at her to run as fast as she could.

"Your head." The doctor made an exaggerated notation on the file. "Tell me where it hurts." And he was mocking her, but she didn't know how to leave.

"It's, um, like a sharp stabbing pain behind my eyes, and I'm feeling like I want to throw up. And light makes it worse." Her voice died off as the doctor set down his pen. "Do you know what's wrong with me?" _Run run run_.

The doctor smiled again. "Nothing that I can't make right."

_Monsters and ghosts and goblins_. "I'm feeling better," Rory said abruptly. "I'm going to leave, sorry to take up your--"

The doctor barred her escape to the door with his cane. "Sit," he ordered, and for some reason, Rory stumbled back to the exam table and sat down. "Don't worry, Rory, this isn't going to hurt. Much."

"How did you know my name?" she asked, mouth dry. She was sure she had put her full name on the intake papers, Lorelai Gilmore.

She never got her answer. An impossible darkness gathered around the doctor and flung itself at her.

Dark.

She screamed, but the sound never left her head.

* * *

She watched the pathetic man in front of her shake his head, deny what had just happened. The wheels in his head turned, and she could almost hear when he came to the decision that he'd had a Vicodin-induced blackout.

"Any recommendation on treatment, Doctor House?" she asked, leaning forward just enough to show a tiny hint of cleavage, a delightful blend of innocence and suggestion. Oh yes, she was going to enjoy this body.

"I..." House blinked and looked at the file. "You had a migraine."

"Really? How strange." She slid off the table, letting her skirt ride up just the tiniest bit, then smoothing it down with pale hands. House's eyes followed her fingers, and she smiled. "I feel all better now. Thank you so much for your help."

She walked out on him, past the nurses' desk, past Lisa Cuddy who had been watching House with a wary eye for the past week. One week to tell that House was not going to be the one she could use for her plans. He was too old, too crippled, and too much of a bastard to accomplish what she needed.

Although it had been fun to mess with the animals at the hospital. Almost all of them had simply chalked it up to House being a jerk. If she'd stayed in House longer, she'd have had some real fun, but time was short.

The spring sun was high in the sky as she made her way back to Rory's car, slid behind the wheel, drove too fast back to the freeway. Time was short and she had too much to accomplish before she could go looking for the Winchesters again.

Killing John Winchester had been fun, but nowhere near as fun as corrupting the boys would be.

But first, she had to tear Rory's life apart.

* * *

Logan was first, and he was almost too easy. Walk back in to the apartment, apologize, get him drunk (but not too drunk) and into bed, careful to cry out just the wrong name as she came, protest too loudly when Logan called her on it, break into tears, plead with him, drop enough hints that it was all _his_ fault.

Then leave.

She'd be back for him later.

* * *

Lorelai was a lot more fun. It took three days of subtle hints, suggestions that all the problems in Rory's life were, in fact, Lorelai's fault, that Rory would have had a less-deprived childhood if Lorelai had married, had lived with Richard and Emily, had been a better mother.

By the end of it, Lorelai hadn't wanted to be around Rory at all, and that was the best part. With an insincere hug and a kiss, she wished Lorelai farewell and drove back to New York. Enroute, she left a voice message on Emily's messaging service, indicating that she didn't have any time for Friday night dinner, there was something urgent that she had to discuss with Logan.

* * *

She told Logan it was over, she didn't want to be around someone who couldn't pull his life together. Logan got mad, Logan stormed out, and it left her with just enough time to slice a line down her arm, spread some blood around in hidden places, on the rug and on the sharp edges, just enough to make people wonder what had happened to poor Rory Gilmore.

She made sure no one saw her leave town. As far as anyone knew, Rory Gilmore walked into that apartment she'd shared with Logan Huntzberger and never walked out again.

* * *

Fun was over. Time for work. She'd been right about Rory's body being perfect. She could look so innocent, open those big blue eyes and have men and a few women falling over themselves to help her. Sit just right, add a tiny tremble to her voice, and she could get whatever she wanted.

That was the thing about human nature. For all their lofty goals and talk about "civilization", humans were still really the base animals that had infected the planet so many years ago. All the animals really cared about were food and fucking, not necessarily in that order.

And really, sex was still the best way to corrupt mankind.

It had been a while since she'd been in a woman's body, and she had forgotten how entertaining it could be; simple suggestions, blinking up with those wide eyes, a hesitant smile, a slight flush to the cheeks, and the men always thought it was their idea.

It became a bit of a contest with herself, to see how many men she could corrupt like this. Occasionally, she even let Rory see what was going on, the fun she was having. Rory didn't like it at all, but she didn't mind. She was used to screaming in her body's head.

But time was growing short, and she still had one last thing to accomplish before her final destination. The priest was the last one she did, whimpering as he fucked her against the wall of his office after her false confession. The man's superior walked in on them, her in betrayed tears as the priest pulled away, trying to explain, running down the hall with his pants still undone after the other horrified priest.

Straightening her clothes and wiping the tears off her face, she took the old Latin texts out of the wall safe and walked out of the church.

The time for fun was over. Now, she could go after the Winchesters.

This was going to be sweet.

* * *

Pride goeth before the fall, someone had once said. While she had been setting her trap, the Winchester boys had been doing a little work of their own. The battle was bloody, but she had been betrayed by her own demonic child, and that was the one thing she hadn't counted on.

She had thought that by taking away the Colt, she'd taken away any chance the Winchesters could kill her. Maybe it was poetic justice that it was a Winchester who held her down, traced lines of blood into her skin, killed her.

She felt her hold on Rory loosen, all the memories she held fall away, all the plans fell away, everything fell away.

When a demon dies, no one cries.

* * *

Rory felt _it_ die, felt control in her body for the first time in months. She rolled onto her stomach, ignoring the searing pain in the cuts on her skin, and threw up. Something black and vile came out of her mouth, the taste of evil on her tongue. She closed her eyes and vomited until she wished she could die.

She remembered everything the demon had made her do, had made everybody do. She remembered everything about everybody the demon had ever possessed.

Everything.

She crawled away from the mess on the ground, from the blood and the bile and the last tattered remains of her innocence, and collapsed at the feet of the men who had done this to her, saved her and condemned her to live like this.

She had nothing left. The demon had driven Logan and Mom away, had done so many horrible things to so many people with her voice and her body and the lie that was her.

"I don't have anything left," she said, throat burning, voices racing about in her head. The boys _Sam and Dean, Dean and Sam and all the hopes and dreams John ever wanted for them burned up in flames on the ceiling_ stared down at her, curled up on the ground. "Not anything."

"Dean, we can't leave her here," Sam _he looked like Dean, her Dean but not her Dean, Lindsay's Dean, and why was her mother's voice in her head?_ said, and there were so many voices _voices voices in her head trying to get out, everything that everyone ever knew, everyone ever possessed by Azazel since the dawn of man_ that his voice was a whisper in the storm.

"I'm not anything," she whispered, and the ground under her hands agreed with her.

"Come on," Sam-not-Dean said, helping her to stand. She'd forgotten how to use her own limbs, and he lifted her in his arms and carried her towards the door. "We'll make sure you're safe."

She started shaking. She knew too much to ever feel safe again.

_end_

**Author's Note:**

> It's been more than seven years since I wrote this and I still have no idea where it came from.


End file.
